


Dream a Little Dream of Me

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dream Bond, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Spoilers for season three finale, minor appearances by other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16296104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: Martin worries; Jon sleeps; and perhaps there is a way they can reach each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you_   
>  _Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you_   
>  _But in your dreams, whatever they be_   
>  _[Dream a little dream of me...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4T3tMkjRig) _   
> 

The room is quiet. Lots of places have been quiet lately, for Martin. Quieter than they should be, at any rate.

The click of the tape recorder sounds louder than it should, in the stillness. It's ridiculous to think such a small sound would wake the still form on the bed, but Martin holds his breath anyway, hopeful against all odds.

Jon remains unmoving, and Martin sighs in disappointment before beginning.

"Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding... well, regarding the new head of the Institute. Sort of. Statement given direct.

"I, uh, I probably shouldn't be doing this here. I mean, supernatural recordings in a supernatural patient's hospital room... not my best idea. I don't- I mean, I'd do it at the Institute, but it didn't - _feel_ right, without you there, Jon. It... I couldn't get it all straight in my head.

"Anyway... statement begins." Martin hesitates; he's not sure how to put this into words. "I've been at the Institute a long time. Longer than you. I've been with the _Beholding_ a long time. And yeah, it's not exactly  _f_ _un_ , but... I've gotten used to it. To the feeling of being watched. But..." he sighs.

"Something's changed. Ever since Mr. Lukas took over the Institute, it's feeling less and less like home.

"Not- not that it ever _did_ ," he adds quickly, "I mean, spooky supernatural manifestations and all - even when I was living there, with the Prentiss attack, it wasn't- but it still felt like I _belonged_ , you know? It doesn't, anymore.

"It wasn't so bad, at first. I thought, with everything that had happened, it was natural for everything to feel a bit off. Especially since we were all on leave for a few weeks, I thought... I thought I was just readjusting to work. But it's just been getting worse.

"Basira and Melanie... they're doing okay, I think. They've gone out for drinks a few times, they seem to be acting normally. I mean, they haven't been there as long, they probably don't notice anything off.

"I don't even know what _is_ off, it's just... it _feels_ wrong. It's still... I mean, it's still _watching_ , but not like there's someone behind it. More like being on camera? Not a _person_ watching and choosing not to interfere, just this cold _machine_ recording everything that happens without even the _ability_ to help. Without the ability to even care. Just leaving you alone with all your secrets exposed."

He pauses. He has a feeling he's been babbling, and he wants to make sure he tells the next part clearly. It's surprisingly easy to organize his thoughts - and that, more than the monitors on the walls, is what assures him that Jon is still alive. He may lack a pulse, he may look like a corpse, but the presence of the Archivist still ensures a good story.

"I didn't make the connection with Peter Lukas at first, but he's been... weird. Weirder than I'd expect, even from the patriarch of some weird fear-worshiping family. He's been... taking an interest. I know that's not unusual, it's what a boss _should_ do, but... I get the feeling he's... I don't know... _targeting_ me? Trying to keep me away from people.

"He keeps giving me projects outside the Institute, or that keep me working late, or just running off into the stacks to try to find old files. Stuff that keeps me away from Melanie and Basira. Every time I try to talk to them, he shows up with some new task, and if I try to get them to help me with it he sends them off with stuff of their own.

"When they're not there he's all friendliness, asking me how I'm doing, offering help... trying to get me to rely on him, and only him, I think. Making sure I don't have anyone else to turn to.

"And I've seen him _watching_ me, too. Like you'd watch a fly on the wall, keeping your eyes on it so it doesn't get away, waiting for the right moment to grab the rolled newspaper and crush it.

"I- I think he wants me dead, Jon. I don't know if he sees me as a threat or just someone useless to be disposed of, but... I think he wants to steal me from the Beholding, give the Lonely another victim.

"I don't want to die. But if I _am_ going to... I don't want it to be by the Lonely."

He sighs. "I- I _know_ it's stupid to say that. One deranged god is as good as another, right? I just... if I'm going to be killed by some creepy embodiment of fear, I'd rather it be the _same_ creepy embodiment of fear that's holding everyone else hostage. The same one that's holding _you_.

"Please wake up, Jon. I... I know things won't magically become alright if- _when_ you do, but... at least I'd get the chance to say goodbye, before it's all over.

"Statement ends."

~~~

There is a voice, on the edge of hearing. It is different from the screams that normally fill this place, and the Archivist does not know where it is coming from. He listens, but it is too faint to understand, and fades away into silence as the train plunges deeper.

The Archivist watches as the carriage twists and the Passenger disappears in a crush of straining metal, her face still peaceful as she is torn apart. He knows what comes next, but he has no wish to see it again. He does not want to know what lies behind that door.

So he does not look. He remains in the train, staring at the crumpled walls and shifting dirt, at the poster with its simple, powerful command: Dig. It is out of place, in this world, intruding where it does not belong. _Dig_. The Archivist does not know why it is there, but it gives him that same strange sense of displacement as the faint, whispering voice he left on the surface. _DIG_.

He digs. The poster tears easily, and the soft dirt beneath parts smoothly under his hands. He digs, and he digs, and he _digs_ , until there is nothing left _to_ dig and he finds himself falling into the grey and lifeless remains of what was once an amphitheater.

Even here he feels the Eye, and the pressure of its gaze is stronger as it watches those who serve it.

The Archivist knows this place, though he has never been here. Knows it as well as if it had been _he_ who watched, helpless, as the Circus went about its work.

He turns, and knows the grey and empty café also, the warped glass and the cup of coffee no longer held in twisted, bony hands.

The Archivist does not want to be here. This place is not for him. But he cannot leave, for there are silvery threads bound around his wrists, and he finds himself pulled along, stumbling and trembling, to an old, wooden door. A dark stain creeps out from underneath it.

The threads tug at him. He knocks, and the door creaks open.

It is not dark inside. There are no horrors lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag him to an even worse fate than this eternal dream he wanders. There is just a room, with a couch and a carpet and a table. And in the middle of it all stands the Assistant.

He is staring at the door with a look of horror on his face. The Archivist is used to this by now. What he is not used to is the horror and fear slowly shifting to confusion, then to a desperate, budding hope, as the Archivist is recognized and understood for what he is.

The Assistant speaks, but his words are faint and inaudible in the silence of this place. Even so, the Archivist knows it is a cry for help. It is always a cry for help, at first, until they learn what the Archivist is. The Assistant knows what the Archivist is, yet still he pleads, the hope in his eyes louder than words could ever be.

The Archivist does not respond. He cannot respond. His only duty is to watch, and the fate of the Assistant is not his concern.

Except...

Except that's not quite right, is it? This figure is _not_ just the Assistant, _not_ just another victim identified only by their traumas. He has a name, and it is one that the Archivist knows well. Martin.

And with that name, the coldness and the detachment slip away. The Archivist is not just the Archivist, either. He is Jon, and _Jon_ lurches forward, hands reaching to pull Martin close, gasping in a breath to cry his name.

The moment of contact is antithesis to this world, and it sends a shockwave out into its very reality, tearing the walls of the dreamscape to shreds.

~~~

"Martin!"

Jon sits up, heart racing, breath loud in his ears. There is a crash beside him - Martin has fallen out of the chair he was sleeping in. He scrambles to his feet and they stare at each other, eyes wide.

After a moment, Martin manages to speak. "You were in my dream."

Jon opens his mouth to respond, but a nurse has come to investigate the noise and they are soon swamped in medical confusion.

~~~

And now it is hours later, and they are sitting in the Archives. The baffled doctors have run their tests, and been forced to declare the recently all-but-brain-dead man in good health and fit to go home. And Jon is telling Martin about the dreams.

He tells him they are all based on statements he took live, but not on those statements that came from members of the Institute. How those are relegated to a space all of their own, beyond the gaze of even the Archivist, and how Martin's voice led him there.

Martin apologizes, fearing he made Jon's nightmares worse - but no.

"Martin, you pulled me back to myself. I was... lost. I'm not even sure if I was _me_. But you found me, somehow. And you woke me up. Thank you."

Martin blushes, pleased and embarrassed in equal measures. "All I did was give a statement. Anyone could have."

Jon frowns in thought, considering this. "I don't think that's true, Martin. I think... you're closer to the Beholding than the others are. There was a... an inconsistency, in the dreams. An aspect of the Buried that came from a statement _you_ recorded. There was nothing else like it."

"Oh." Martin glances at his hands, somewhat surprised to find he's still holding his mug. The tea is long gone, so he places it on Jon's desk before continuing. "So... these dreams have been going on for a while, then?"

"Ever since Naomi Herne gave her statement about the Lukases. Speaking of, you said Peter Lukas...?"

"Yeah. Um, that was what the statement was about, in the hospital." Jon takes a breath to say something, but Martin pushes on before he can. "So the dreams aren't going to change, then?"

"Probably not. They seem to come with the job of Archivist."

"Right. Just, now that you've... found me, in there, is it going to... will it continue for me?"

"The nightmares, you mean?" He sighs. "I don't know how to stop them, Martin. I'm sorry if I've made them worse for you."

"N- no, I mean, I'm used to them at this point, Prentiss is... a regular occurrence. I just meant - l mean, will you be there, in the future?"

"Oh." Jon pauses. "Presumably? I'll certainly look for you." He freezes, as though he's overstepped. "Uh, if, if you want me to."

"I, uh, I'd like that, actually. If, if you don't mind? It'd be nice not to be alone in there."

Jon smiles, and Martin feels lighter than he has in months. "I agree." Then he turns serious again. "But speaking of being alone..."

"Right." Martin sighs. "D'you want to just listen to the tape? It's a bit all over the place, but I think I covered everything."

Jon nods. "I won't make you repeat it. If you have it here, then...?"

They listen to the tape, and though Martin winces at the despairing note in his own voice, he can't bring himself to regret anything he said.

Jon sits with his eyes closed throughout, chin resting on his hands, but Martin can see his knuckles whiten as he clenches those hands into fists. He doesn't react when the recorder first clicks off, just takes a deep, deep breath. Then he lets it out in a sigh, slumping forward so that he can run distracted hands through his hair without lifting his elbows from the desk.

He stays slumped like that, staring at the whorls in the wood, until Martin notices his shoulders shaking. At first he thinks Jon is crying, but...

"Jon? Are- are you _laughing?"_

He sits back, slouching in his chair, and yes, it is laughter shaking his frame - but it is not a pleasant laughter, and his eyes are filled with tears.

"It's just so typical, isn't it? Save the world, lose a friend. Get rid of one evil boss, get one that's even worse. It's just so. Damn. Typical." He is not laughing anymore, but neither is he crying. His eyes are cold, and Martin can hear the suppressed rage underlying his voice.

"Well," he says, trying to break the mood, "that's just a normal Wednesday at the Magnus Institute, isn't it?"

Jon's mouth twists bitterly, and he seems to be on the verge of a harsh retort before he cuts himself off. Instead he says, quite calmly, "It's not stupid, Martin, to be afraid of the Lonely. I'd rather we served the same god as well." And before Martin can recover from that: "And don't you dare say goodbye. Peter Lukas may run the Institute now, but I'm still Head of the Archives and I'll make damn sure you're not left alone. If you ever need someone to turn to, I'm here."

"I-" He sounds so _sincere_ , and he's looking at Martin like there's nothing else in the world. "Th- thank you, Jon. That- I mean- thanks."

Jon nods, like this is an ordinary conversation and he's only offered to help sort files, like he hasn't just promised to fight for Martin's life.

"Of course, Martin. I know we haven't always been on the best of terms, but you are... you're very important to me."

And this must be how Martin dies, because there is no way a human heart can beat this fast without running itself out, right? Jon is looking at him, eyes filled with worry and compassion and, yes, underneath it all there is a raw and powerful feeling Martin doesn't even dare to name, because it is _Jon_ feeling it and because it is directed at _him_.

He swallows, and manages to choke out, "You too," and there is a flicker of a smile on Jon's face before the door is flung open by an irate Melanie, with Basira following along behind, and the explanations begin once again.


	2. Epilogue

It's easier to fall asleep, knowing there is someone who will meet you on the other side.

Even as the pounding starts and he hears Prentiss calling to him through the thin door, Martin is comforted by the fact that he will not be left alone here forever. Indeed, it is not very long before the pounding is replaced by a polite and hesitant knock, and the door creaks open to reveal Jon, covered in webs but smiling. 

It shouldn't be allowed, really. They both know that, and they know it is only a matter of time before they are found out and ripped apart to suffer in solitude again, but while it lasts, it is good. Not perfect - the door begins to shake again with Prentiss's attack as soon as it is closed, and blood seeps underneath it to soak the webs that fall from Jon. But it is still good, to have company through the long nights.

There are limitations. They cannot touch, as they found after a friendly pat on the back sent them both rocketing back to wakefulness the first night. They cannot leave the room, for worms and webs block every exit. But they can talk, and talking is enough when you have nothing else.

Tonight, they are talking about life before the Institute. They sit on Martin's memory of his living room couch as Jon tells tales of going to University, of his classmates and teachers and suffering through endless lectures on topics he couldn't care less about, and struggling to understand the topics he actually enjoyed. Martin laughs, and Jon smiles, and when Martin begins to talk about everything he would have studied, if he could, Jon leans closer and listens as though Martin's voice is the only sound in the world.

And when Martin stops talking, and simply looks at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, Jon leans forward to meet those lips with his own.

The world shatters around them.

~~~

Martin bolts upright in bed, lips tingling from the broken kiss, half expecting Jon to still be in the room with him. When he realizes what happened he groans. Of course. No touching. What a way to break that rule.

He grabs his phone, sending a quick text to Jon - _I would have kissed back if I had time, maybe in the morning? xoxo_ \- before rolling over to try to reclaim the dream. But morning comes before sleep, and Jon doesn't text back.

~~~

The day's work is... awkward. Basira is already working with Jon when Martin arrives at the Institute, and the new buddy system Jon implemented to counter Peter Lukas's effects means that they will be no more than ten feet away from each other all day. It is _not_ conducive to private discussions. 

Martin is stuck working with the two of them for almost a half an hour, stealing glances at Jon and trying not to get too starry-eyed while Basira is in the room, until Melanie finally shows up and he can go work on a separate project with her.

Even so, Jon keeps casting him glances when the two teams' paths cross, and it does little tohelp him focus on his work.

It is a relief when the day nears its end, and Basira declares she is heading home. Jon says he will work late, which means either Melanie or Martin will need to stay with him, and Melanie takes the opportunity to declare she's not staying in the building for even a minute longer than necessary. Finally, _finally_ , Jon and Martin are left alone.

As soon as the office door closes, giving them privacy, Jon takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about last night, Martin. I didn't mean to overstep the boundaries of propriety, or make you uncomfortable."

Martin feels his heart plunge. Is Jon trying to take it back? Did he not mean it? "You didn't- I mean- didn't you get my text?"

A flicker of a smile. "Not till the morning, I turn my phone off at night. Even so, I just- I wanted to make sure you meant it. That you weren't just trying to make me feel better about it."

"Jon." There is so much more he wants to say, but the words die in his throat as Jon gives him that look again, all hope and caring and raw emotion.

He shakes his head, giving up on speech, and simply steps closer, reaching to grasp Jon's hands. Jon takes a surprised breath, eyes widening, and meets him halfway.

"Jon," he says again, finally finding his voice. "I meant it. Wholeheartedly."

And now the smile is back on Jon's face, and before Martin has time to process it he is pulled into a kiss.

The world shatters around them, or is that just Martin? Coming apart in a million pieces, too full of happiness for it to be contained in a single body. Jon's arms are warm around him, and his mouth tastes like chamomile tea.

It shouldn't be allowed. So much is wrong with their world, to find even the smallest source of joy should be impossible. Yet when they finally fall asleep that night, after long hours of talking and holding each other close and, yes, more kissing, the dreams have not changed. The webs still pull Jon to Martin's door, and they sit near each other on the frayed old couch, sharing laughter and smiles, hands mere millimeters apart.

It shouldn't be allowed. But for now, at least, their dreams are sweet.


End file.
